


Heartbeat

by scottmczall



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M, POV Scott McCall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:11:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4003621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scottmczall/pseuds/scottmczall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They go back to the same spot over and over again. Stiles has games and his mother had just died; Scott has skills and his dad drinks too much. They’re each other’s best friends and even they have a hard time telling how this could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, oh, I was so excited about writing this fic and I wanted something really long, but I realized I'd need a smaller piece first, so I divided it into two chapters. This piece was beta'ed by
> 
> [anonymouses](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymouses/pseuds/anonymouses) and [korilove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/korilove/pseuds/korilove), and I hope you like it :)

Scott didn’t know much about scents back then, more knees and elbows than anything else, uncertain in his step, wide eyed and hopeful. Just a kid—already breaking fundamental rules. He follows it because it’s sweet and it appeases his senses, soothing like chamomile, though in a completely different way. It’s too good to be bad, or dangerous. _This is ok_ , he says to himself.

 

“Is anyone there?” He calls hopefully. There’s a heartbeat somewhere around and it spikes up, being followed by a gasp. “It's ok!” Scott tries, moving two steps further. “My name’s Scott, what’s your name?” He continues, insistent, overly trusting—and there are some things that just don’t change. One more step and the wolf can see his target, a lanky boy with pink cheeks and teary eyes.

 

There's hiccup, or a sob, and then, “I'm Stiles.” He blinks some tears away and looks around warily, "I think we’re in big trouble.”  

 

Scott blinks once, slowly, and scratches his nose without taking his eyes off of the boy, mouth hanging open in surprise, “You’re human.” 

 

“You're a wolf.” 

 

*

They _are_ in big trouble. Stiles is the enemy, for all he’s told—and Scott _likes_ him; it’s hard not to. He doesn’t really care, doesn’t believe there’s any truth to the scary stories when Stiles pinches himself in the arm just to see it turn pink and giggles to himself. He doesn’t look like a predator, he looks like a kid. 

 

They go back to the same spot over and over again. Stiles has games and his mother had just died, Scott has skills and his dad drinks too much. They’re each other’s best friends and even they have a hard time telling how this could be. 

 

“My dad’s asking me where I’m going to so much,” Stiles draws a circle on the dirt, “I told him I found puppies next to the vet’s clinic.” He smiles slyly, looking up at Scott. It’s just about six months after they’ve met and Stiles' hair is cut short, a drastic change from the bowl haircut he had before. Scott thinks it’s about his mom’s death, but he won’t ask if Stiles won’t tell. 

 

Scott grins, tapping on the stick Stiles is drawing with, “I’m not a puppy.” He giggles when Stiles elbows him for ruining his circle.

 

“No, but you’re happy like a puppy. And you're nice.” Stiles says decisively, “You're nothing like they say, you know?” He shrugs, biting down on his lip, “They're all wrong.” 

 

Stiles gives Scott one final look, and it feels lost. Hopeless. 

 

His mother notices his absence during the afternoons, but doesn’t confront him. Instead she envelops him in a hug and tells him to be careful. Scott knows she thinks this is about staying away from his father—and she might even be right. 

 

*

Growing together is interesting, to say the least. The escapades become easier to pull throughout the years, with their parents gradually giving up control, going easier on their senses. 

 

Scott’s father leaves when he’s ten, just six months after he meets Stiles, and the man apologizes so much Scott almost believes he’s sorry for everything he’s done. Almost. His house finds a funny balance initially, in between too silent and so much better. Scott swears his mother’s smiles do the same. He’s thirteen when he realizes that’s as steady as they’ll get—and here he takes a lesson on oscillation, and how life’s not too often about steadiness. 

 

Things go differently for Stiles, and Scott itches under his skin because no matter how much he reaches, there’s no ability on the tip of his fingers that could possibly do anything to fix this. He listens to Stiles’ small confessions on how his house has lost its light, and how it’s a hollow home. His shirts soak when his friend tells him about how he can't get his father to talk about any of it, and how the bottle of whisky looks like an ornament on their table for a while. Scott knows about that all too well, and it hits home. 

 

“Maybe you can find another home.” Scott suggests once, “Not another house, with another dad, just… another home.” There’s a lump on his throat and his heart's beating fast--he hopes Stiles can hear it. He hopes he _understands._  

 

Stiles looks at him just for a second, then looks back down, smiling coyly, “Yeah. Yeah, maybe I can.” 

 

* 

They kiss for the first time at fourteen. It doesn't happen suddenly—or at least Scott doesn’t think so—it just _happens_ , naturally like he thinks it should be. Maybe he saw it coming, though, what with the longing looks and innuendos, brushing hands and that air knocking kind of heart hammering against his ribcage so, so many times. 

 

Their lips are dry and chapped and everything but their intentions and Stiles’ hand behind his neck are in the wrong place.

 

“Maybe this is wrong.” The words sound harsh just as they leave Scott’s lips. He doesn’t mean it like that, he actually means the kissing, and how their mouths felt slotted awkwardly against each other. 

 

Luckily, Stiles knows when to be dense—or maybe he just generally knows better, “I think we just need more practice.” And the second time is better—they lick their lips quickly beforehand, thinking together. 

 

Everyday is practice day now. 

 

* 

Scott's shifts change with time, too, and all the things that were shuddery and wavy, not quite successful reaches for a full turn, evolve into convulsive muscles and the full moon hanging heavy above his head. 

 

The first hard one hits at fifteen, and he sweats and growls, curling into himself as his body rebels against him. His mother stands next to him, and her face twists in a pain he can recognize, because it's the _same_. Empathy never smells that foul again. 

 

He's reminded of his grounds and asked about what may keep him rooted. Stiles' name stays stuck on his tongue for too long before he talks about the preserve, and how it feels like home. It's not a lie in its entirety, he just happens to have two homes--his mother and Stiles, but Scott supposes they can go by their locations. 

 

"Was it rough like the first?" Stiles asks, lips tipping down. They're sitting on the ground, back against a rock.

 

Scott shakes his head, an inevitable grin taking over his lips, "Easier. I just needed to find my anchor, I guess." He shrugs and Stiles snorts, cheeks flushing.

 

"One day I'm gonna be there with you, Scotty." He promises, "I can't now, but… one day, okay?" Stiles kisses the corner of his mouth, his longing scent filling Scott's senses to a point where he almost sobs.

 

"That'd be dangerous." Scott says naturally after recovering himself, because he always does, constantly reminding Stiles of their imbalance, blowing off meetings when he's feeling anything less than absolutely in control.

 

Stiles groans—another common thing, "I really don't give a shit." He's aggressive in his affirmation, walking the edge of angry and daring like he belongs there, and Scott's chest tightens because Stiles is reckless in ways that took him time to figure out—strategic to a point where it just doesn't seem to matter anymore, and then unstoppable. He's constantly scared of seeing that in action.

 

"I do." Scott stammers, "I wish you did." 

 

"I give a shit about _you_." Stiles says quickly, "That's about as far as I can compromise.” He completes unapologetically, shifting even closer and burying his face into the crook of Scott’s neck. He knows Stiles resents not being able to catch scents, or know them by heart like Scott does, but he does his best with what he’s got. 

 

Scott doesn't fight him on what he says, even with a persistent twist in his gut that shoves this same worry upon him over and over again. 

 

*

They're better than they could ask for, curious hands and demanding mouths. They belong, fit, grow into something more within and without each other, learning how to make this last, clinging to it for dear life. 

 

Scott still thinks Stiles smells sweet, even though it comes with a possessive, rebellious taste to it, a glint of violence they both chose to overlook. He doesn't have much to say for himself, except that he doesn't know where this is going—where it _can_ go. But he'll go for it, no doubt. Every single time, with eyes closed, in a heartbeat. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always much appreciated!!!


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